


Still Undone

by rutaceae



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Jason & Bruce never died, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Tim Drake Gets a Hug, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim is an unreliable narrator when it comes to his own feelings, extensive discussions of consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:15:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24843673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rutaceae/pseuds/rutaceae
Summary: Tim gets an unwanted haircut. His family helps.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 63
Kudos: 537





	Still Undone

**Author's Note:**

> I mashed a lot together from various canons and much of my inspiration comes from the brilliant authors of this fandom, so take the timeline and characterisation with a grain of salt. All you need to know for this to make sense is that in this universe, Jason didn’t die, Bruce got therapy, and Tim is still Robin while Damian adjusts to life outside a cult. The two still clash from time to time, but mostly get along. They’re also both in school because everyone deserves an education, dammit! Title is from Orville Peck’s Hope to Die.
> 
> Thanks to [zegez](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zegez/profile) for editing this!

Tim’s spent most of the school day so far operating on autopilot. His thoughts are muffled and his head buzzes like he’s hovering in a cloud of static, his brain catching on the memory from that morning like a headphone cable snagged on a doorknob. He finds himself gnawing on his lip, his sleeve cuffs. Tim’s pencil shakes badly enough from the tremors that he gives up on writing notes entirely, shoving both his hands deep into his pockets. 

Tim stares at his blank notebook, willing himself to focus, trying to pay attention to anything but the relentless wave of roiling anxiety in his gut. There’s no reason he should be feeling this way; it was a possibility, a foreseen consequence. It’s his own fault for not adequately planning for every contingency—he should know better by now.

Class inches by, and when it lets out, Tim spends lunch huddled at the back of the cafeteria, trying to force himself to take another bite of the sandwich Alfred prepared for him that morning. But the thought of eating any more makes him want to hurl, so he wraps the sandwich and puts it back in his bag. Throwing away something made specially for him heightens the churning of his stomach, as if Alfred would ever know, or feel offended by it, but Tim can’t seem to stop himself from worrying about _everything_ today, so wrapping his lunch back up it is.

Tim still feels sick, and that makes him think about skipping class, but he imagines the look on Bruce’s face if he found out and the fear of disappointing him further just worsens the trepidation that’s been plaguing him since morning. Tim adjusts his hood, fingers brushing against his hair, and has to stop himself bolting down the hall at the feel of _wrong wrong wrong_.

\---

The thing is, Tim knows this isn’t a big deal—he’s dealt with worse as Robin on a daily basis, there’s no reason he should be overreacting over a, a— a _haircut_ , like he’s gone through something awful, which he definitely _hasn’t_. He was used to the looks of disapproval from the teachers about his hair, it wasn’t anything new. He weathered the disappointed glances of his parents for years; the same from an authority figure he doesn’t even care about is _nothing_.

Tim’s status as one of Bruce Wayne’s many adopted children meant that a subtle reminder of his name was enough to halt most trouble with the administration, and plenty of the other kids with much less influential fathers got away with even more rule-flouting than Tim has ever attempted. Just because he got used to a lack of consequences doesn’t mean that now something _has_ happened he’s allowed to feel bad about it. It was just _hair_.

Of course, repeating this to himself doesn’t stop the building dread from threatening to overwhelm Tim’s already-frayed composure; even thinking about how he would explain this to his family makes Tim want to lock himself in one of the grimy restroom stalls to hyperventilate.

By the time Tim’s putting his things away in his locker at the end of the day he’s almost managed to make himself dizzy from the panic. He tugs his hood down even further, thankful the other teachers have allowed him the small dignity of his hoodie at least.

He trudges his way to the pickup, prepared to wait for Alfred as he needs to collect Damian from the elementary campus first before coming for Tim. It gives him time to try to calm down, so Tim tries the breathing relaxation techniques he overheard Bruce mention to Jason; in for four, out for eight. By the time he sees Alfred pull up, Tim’s feeling a little less like he’ll crumble at the lightest touch.

Tim slides into the back seat with a mumbled greeting to Alfred, avoiding the glance Damian throws him as he shoves in his headphones, prepared to ignore his brother until they’re back at the Manor.

In some form of a miracle, this works, and Tim continues to be left alone after they arrive. He figures Alfred saw the hoodie and assumed Tim was dealing with another bout of sensory overload, since on any other day he would’ve had Cass asking him to help record her dance covers again, or Jason reading out his college essays for mistakes. Hopefully, since it seems the others got the memo that Tim Needs Time Alone, it means he can get away with staying locked in his room without having to explain the overwhelming unease wracking his mind.

Once he’s locked the door behind him, Tim makes a start on his homework, and gives a cursory attempt at studying for his Spanish test to take his mind off the school day. He gets maybe half of his work done before sweeping it aside for some case files he has open on his laptop. He only lasts twenty minutes before he quits that too and flops back onto his bed. The attempt at productivity doesn’t rid Tim of the swirling distress and anxiety that’s been following him all day.

Tim is Robin, he’s strong, he’s on the streets with Batman protecting Gotham most nights; if something like this happened when he was wearing the red suit and cape he would’ve been able to stop it, but—right now he’s just _Tim_. He’s sixteen, still kind of new to being a proper member of the Wayne household, and he doesn’t have Robin’s magic to protect him from feeling all this confusion over a dumb little thing that _definitely doesn’t matter_. Tim’s eyes glaze over, so he shoves a pillow over his face and holds himself together as best he can.

\---

Soon enough, dinner time comes around, and Tim’s stomach sinks at the thought of facing his family at the table. He’s still wearing his hoodie, and by now it’s been enough time that someone’s going to ask about it and Tim _still_ doesn’t know what he’s going to say. If he’d been hit he could shrug it off, joke about holding back as a cover, but no one _hurt_ him and it’s nothing, he’s overreacting, it’s not a big deal and—

And he’s been sitting here long enough that someone might actually come up to ask if he’s okay, so Tim peels himself off the bed and ducks into his bathroom, quickly splashing his face with water. He catches a glimpse of his reflection and shudders, scrubbing his face dry as though it’ll also rub the red from his eyes.

Tim makes his way down to the dining room, trying to ignore the dread pooling inside his gut. Tim’s heart is still pounding in his chest, and he feels as though he’ll fall apart at the slightest nudge. But skipping dinner is an acknowledgement of how much this truly is affecting him, so Tim swallows back the anxiety and does his best to control his breathing on the way to the dining room.

Loud laughter spills into the hall through the open door, followed by a muffled grunt and what sounds like a… growl? Dick must have made his way over from Blüdhaven tonight, judging by the ongoing scuffle. Tim pauses just outside the door and draws in a deep, steadying breath, grateful when it only shudders slightly. Straightening his hood, he tucks his earbuds in tighter before he crosses the threshold. He quickly makes his way to the table, determined to get through dinner with as little fuss as possible. If he’s calm enough, if he plays this right, surely he can avoid close scrutiny long enough to fix this himself. As Tim takes his seat, Cass prods lightly at his arm and gestures towards his head with a quirk of her eyebrow.

Tim does his best to smile at her. “Everything’s just a little loud today, Cass. I’ll feel better tomorrow.”

It’s clear Cass doesn’t believe him from the frown that crosses her face, but she lets the matter drop and Tim internally breathes a sigh of relief. She’ll likely try to corner him later to get an answer, but for now he’s safe. Of course, that’s the moment Dick and Jason decide to stop arguing and notice that Tim’s made it into the room.

“Timmy! I was wondering when you were going to show up,” Dick says brightly.

“Yeah, Timbers, we missed you!” Jason chimes in, reaching across the table as though to ruffle Tim’s still-hidden hair. Tim leans back before Jason can dislodge the fabric, fiddling with the cord of his hoodie.

“Hi,” Tim says, reluctant to say more.

“I _did_ inform you that Timothy was likely to be indisposed until evening and that we should allow him some space,” Damian pipes up haughtily.

“Aw, baby bat, you’re so adorable when you care,” teases Jason.

Damian bristles, flushing angrily. “Do not presume to know my intentions, _peasant_ ,” he snaps.

“Boys,” Bruce admonishes lightly.

Jason and Damian continue to banter until Alfred joins them at the table, the hum of conversation remaining an almost-calming background murmur for the course of the meal. Tim supplies a non-committal hum at the few mentions of his name, but for the most part he’s free to space out uninterrupted.

Afterwards Tim joins the others in helping bring the plates to the kitchen, trailing after the pack of siblings. He makes as though he’s following them to the den before changing direction, and he’s almost made it to the staircase when he feels a large hand drop gently onto his shoulder.

“Tim,” Bruce says, and he has to stop himself from shrinking away. “You alright there, chum? You were pretty quiet during dinner.”

Tim shrugs in response, staring down at his feet.

“I dunno, just distracted by things,” he mumbles, shoving his hands further into his pockets.

Bruce lets out a quiet hum, and he doesn’t ask Tim to elaborate. Instead he continues running his thumb along Tim’s shoulder. It’s reassuring, the sort of comfort Tim never expected he’d regularly get to experience, and he leans slightly into Bruce’s grip.

“You don’t need to talk if you don’t want to, buddy, but I’m here if you need me.” Bruce says, his large hand cupping the back of Tim’s head and pulling him close. The sudden warmth causes a lump to appear in Tim’s throat, and Tim blinks away the prickling in his eyes, sniffling a few times before he nods into Bruce’s chest.

“I’ll be okay,” Tim says, because this is just a small setback, and he needs to be okay, to function, to be _useful_ again, but… surely taking a moment to relax against Bruce is allowed. Tim can always use Bruce’s presence to keep himself together for a short while longer, and break down later when he’s alone.

Bruce hums, brushing the corners of Tim’s eyes to collect the unshed tears. It’s then that Bruce pauses, his posture stiffening like he’s noticed something is wrong. Tim freezes, lungs turning to ice. He pulls away immediately, nope nope _nope_ he is _not_ ready for this now.

“Um, Bruce, so, great talk, but I have homework I still need to do and that test to study for so I don’t think I’m gonna go out tonight and I’m just gonna go, bye see you later,” Tim rambles, backtracking towards the stairs. Of course, this manages to make Bruce look even more concerned, and Tim didn’t _want_ this, he needs to go, like, _now_.

Only Bruce is striding towards him, his face set, and Tim’s heart is beating fast enough to rival a Speedster and he can’t be panicking now, because Bruce will just worry about Tim instead of Gotham and insist on staying in when the city needs Batman more than Tim, and—

Bruce moves slowly, telegraphing his movements. Tim stares straight ahead as Bruce rests a hand on his cheek, brushing once, twice, before he hooks his thumbs into the hood. Tim swallows, his vision blurring as more tears pool in his eyes.

When Bruce lowers the hood Tim hasn’t let drop since morning, he goes silent for a solid five seconds.

“Oh, _Tim_ ,” he breathes, and Tim has no hope of stopping the sob that bursts out of him.

\---

There’s a moment’s pause before Bruce moves, drawing Tim into his arms. Tim can barely see through the tears obscuring his vision, heaving sobs wracking his form. He lurches with the force of it, tears coursing down his face, the culmination of all the fear-worry-anxiety- _shame_ he’d bottled up all day pouring out at once. Tim faintly hears Bruce making shushing noises above his head as he cries uncontrollably.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t—” Tim manages to gasp out. He reaches out to push Bruce away, still choking on his tears, pressing a balled up fist against his eye socket as if it’ll stop the endless flow of salt still streaming down his face.

Tim’s mortified that he’s losing it over something so immaterial, when others have held it together over much less, but he’s helpless against the surging wave of emotion, relentless as it reminds him his hair is _gone gone gone and it’s your fault and you could’ve stopped it and it doesn’t even matter why are you still **crying**_ —

At some point, Bruce hauls Tim up into his arms and tucks Tim’s head into his shoulder, carrying him down the hall into the den. Tim continues to sob into Bruce’s neck, unable to stop himself from crying harder when he’s lowered onto the couch, Bruce pulling Tim half into his lap. Tim’s pressed into his side, Bruce’s arm resting heavy over his shoulder as Tim cries desperately into Bruce’s shirt.

Tim doesn’t know how long he spends curled up by Bruce’s side, shaking through the worst breakdown he’s had since, like, _ever_. When his tears finally begin to peter off, Bruce offers him a bottle of water, and Tim sips it slowly between hitching breaths. He’s present enough to know that he and Bruce aren’t the only ones in the room, but Tim’s so exhausted he can barely do more than sip his water and rub at his sore cheeks.

Bruce eases Tim’s hand away, dabbing under his eyes with a handkerchief. Tim idly wonders if he got it from Alfred as his thoughts slowly gain coherency. When he sits up, pulling back slightly, Tim sees Dick and Jason camped out on the arm chairs, Cass sitting by their feet. She notices him looking and waves. His brothers are seemingly distracted by something on Dick’s phone; if Tim knows them at all, they’re likely feigning nonchalance over Tim’s breakdown for his sake.

“How are you feeling now, buddy?” asks Bruce, his voice pitched low. He’s running his fingers through the curling hair at the nape of Tim’s neck, his hand a warm balm against the barrage of emotions Tim’s spent God-knows how long sobbing out.

“’M fine,” says Tim, leaning back further. Bruce holds his hand still against Tim’s neck, keeping him from moving too far.

“You were crying for almost half an hour, Timbit, I don’t think that’s fine,” says Dick, concern heavy in his voice.

Tim feels a prickle of irritation on the deflated lump of his emotions.

“I told you, I’m _fine_ ,” he snaps.

Bruce throws a glance to Dick and he settles back in his chair with a sigh. Cass pats his knee.

“Tim, I’d like for you to look at me,” says Bruce, and Tim hesitantly makes eye contact.

“I’m going to ask you a question now, if that’s alright.”

Tim nods.

“Tim, sweetheart,” says Bruce. “What happened to your hair?”

And he says it in his most gentle voice, the one Batman uses with victims, and Tim— he _can’t_ , he’s not been hurt the way the others have, Bruce shouldn’t need to reassure him over something as insignificant as _this_.

“’S nothing,” Tim mumbles, plucking at a loose thread on his hoodie. “Not important.”

“Whether or not you think it’s important, I’d still like to know,” says Bruce. “Was it an accident?”

“…No,” says Tim.

“Was it one of your classmates?”

Tim doesn’t answer, hunching his shoulders as he continues to worry at the thread, rolling it between the pads of his fingers.

“Was it one of the boys at school who’ve been bothering you about your hair?” Jason asks, a steel edge to his voice. “‘Cause if it was, I can give ‘em what for.”

“ _Jason_ ,” Dick hisses. “Now isn’t the time.”

“It wasn’t,” says Tim, hesitant to explain further.

“Baby bird, if they threatened to hurt you for telling on them that’s super not okay, you know that, right? Just tell us who they are and we can help you,” says Dick earnestly, leaning forward.

“I know you may be reluctant to hear this, but if you are being targeted by the students at your school there’s steps we can take to stop it. I’d be happy to talk to the principal on your behalf, Tim. Gotham Academy should still have a zero tolerance policy when it comes to bullying.” Bruce says, and Tim reaches his limit.

“Oh my _God_ ,” he bursts out. “It wasn’t any of the students, and I’m _not_ getting bullied, it was a teacher, okay? I walked into class with my hair tied up, and he started getting on my case about how it’s— inappropriate, and against school rules—which is a _lie_ , by the way—and he’s complained about it before so I didn’t listen, and then suddenly he pulls out the scissors and he, he just— grabbed my hair, and he cut it, and it happened and it’s _over_ , and I should’ve known or expected it like all the times before and it _doesn’t matter_ and it’s FINE, so just stop _TALKING_!” Tim shouts.

The room goes deathly silent.

“A teacher did this to you,” says Jason, his voice as hard as steel.

“I— yes, but—”

“I’m going to put him in the fucking _ground_ ,” growls Jason, and he powers out of the room. Dick throws Bruce a helpless look before he runs out after him.

Tim scrambles out of his seat, but before he can launch himself after Jason and Dick, Bruce catches him around the waist and pulls Tim back into the circle of his arms.

“Jason— wait, _no_ , you can’t let him— Bruce, let me _go_ ,” Tim tries to prise himself free from Bruce’s unshakeable grip with no luck.

“Hey, hey, no, shhh, Dick’s going to talk to him now, nothing’s going to happen,” Bruce soothes, voice slow and calm as he rubs Tim’s back.

“But he was so _mad_ , what if Dick lets him go and, and he hurts someone, and it’ll be my fault—”

“Tim, I promise Jason won’t actually harm your teacher.”

“—and I didn’t even say who it was, what if he goes after the wrong guy by accident, he’d get into so much trouble and they could connect us to—”

“They have cameras, don’t they? I’m sure Jason could figure it out.”

Tim is shocked silent. “ _Bruce_ ,”

“Tim. We beat up criminals every night, how is this any different.”

“But… he’s not a criminal, though.”

“Sweetheart, he _assaulted_ you. He’s already a criminal as far as I’m concerned.”

Tim’s thoughts smash to a halt.

“I— what? No, it was just— he didn’t—” Tim stares imploring at Bruce for a long moment before all the fight leaves him in a rush, and he goes utterly limp.

Bruce eases Tim into his lap, shuffling him until he’s comfortable.

“He didn’t hurt me, though,” says Tim quietly.

At this, Cass unfurls herself from the base of Dick’s vacated armchair and treads lightly to the couch. She sits cross-legged next to Bruce, facing Tim, and takes his hand gently between hers.

“Not physically hurt, little brother,” she says, before reaching over to tap Tim’s sternum. “Hurting here. Inside.”

Tim stares at her before returning his gaze downwards.

“Even if I am,” Tim mumbles, “why are you doing this.”

Bruce runs his hand through the jagged strands of Tim’s hair. “It’s my job to care about you.”

“No, I mean the—” Tim gestures abstractly, “— _this_ thing. Carrying me. It’s not like my dad would have.”

“Did a shit job,” says Cass.

“Language,” sighs Bruce, “Though Jack _did_ do a shitty job of caring for you like he should have,” he adds with a grimace.

Cass’ eyes glimmer. “Language,” she retorts.

Bruce levels her a flat look.

Drained of all energy, Tim’s thoughts are still chugging along at least eighty percent slower than usual, meaning the customary tug of irritation over his father fizzles out before he can even voice it. Tim imagines having to bring this up with Jack, with his views on boys with long hair, and slams the brakes on that train of thought. Tim doesn’t need to add guilt over slandering a dead man into the already volatile mix of emotion he’s currently dealing with.

Tim turns his mind back outwards to his current situation, and the fact that Bruce still hasn’t let him go.

“You don’t have to keep holding me,” Tim says. “I’m sixteen, I’m not a kid.”

“Well, you’re still _my_ kid, so suck it up,” says Bruce, the gruffness in his voice belied by the kiss he drops onto the crown of Tim's head.

Cass grins brightly. “Love you, little brother,” she says softly.

Leant against Bruce’s chest with his toes pushing against Cass’ shins, Tim’s able to smile shakily at her in return.

Though with Cass sticking to him and Bruce, Tim begins to worry about his other rogue siblings. He probably would have heard if Jason was going to the garage for his bike, right?

“Cass, can you make sure Jason isn’t enacting vigilante justice,” Tim asks, and she snickers.

“Will hurt. For you,” says Cass. “But not today.” She presses a feather-light kiss to Tim’s forehead before dancing over to the door.

It isn’t long before she emerges again with both Dick and Jason in tow, and Tim breathes a sigh of relief. Tim’s hackles drop further when the two linger near the doorway, not immediately crowding him with their overbearing methods of affection.

“Hey Timmy,” Dick calls gently. Even from the couch, Tim can see a pinch in the corner of his eyes and feels a pang of guilt over how he’s made his eldest brother worry.

Jason simply looks Tim in the eyes, a strained smile passing over his face before he leans against the door jam, arms crossed. “Hey kid,” he says with a sigh, “sorry I jumped the gun on threatening that teacher of yours. Didn’t mean to scare you into thinking I was actually gonna kill him.”

Tim scowls. “Then maybe don’t _announce_ that you’re going to do it.”

“You’re right. Next time I’ll keep it quiet so I don’t implicate you in premeditated murder,” jokes Jason, immediately followed by an _ow!_ as Cass brutally elbows him in the side.

Tim throws himself forward with a groan, forcing Bruce to stop threading his fingers through his hair.

“I told you, you don’t need to overreact over things that aren’t that important,” Tim grumbles into his hands, not seeing the grim look exchanged by the adults over his head.

“I… Tim, were you listening to me earlier?” asks Bruce with concern.

Tim glowers at him. “Yes, I heard you, I know you said that it was—” he grimaces, “— _assault_ or whatever, but it’s still, like, not that bad! I know you’re all saying that it’s messed up and it hurt me, and I get it, I cried it out and I processed it and I’m _over it_. It’s not like he hit me, or worse.”

“Or worse,” repeats Bruce flatly.

“ _Yes_ , or worse. I still don’t get why you’re all freaking out over this!” Tim exclaims, flinging himself back onto the couch next to Bruce with a huff.

Cass throws Tim a stern look. “Already told you why.”

“It’s ‘cause we care about you, dingus,” says Jason. “Of course we’re gonna get angry on your behalf.”

“Your hair is an important part of you, so you should rightfully be upset.” Bruce says carefully, placing a hand on Tim’s shoulder.

“But it’s still just a _haircut_ ,” Tim pleads, looking up at Bruce.

“Okay, but, did you want it, though?” asks Jason.

“I— no, but it’s not like—”

“Tim, buddy, whether or not it’s ‘just a haircut’,” Jason says, with dramatic air quotes, “The point isn’t the relative _severity_ of what happened, it’s whether you wanted it or not.”

Tim turns to stare at his brother, unsure of how he wants him to respond.

“Did you want a haircut, baby bird?” Jason asks.

“No,” Tim mumbles.

“Did you ask him to cut your hair?”

“…No.”

Jason pushes off the wall, and comes to sit next to Tim on the couch. He looks pointedly at Bruce’s arm, still holding Tim against his side, and Bruce lets out a resigned sigh before taking his arm back. Jason gleefully wraps his own arm around Tim, pulling him into his similarly broad chest. Tim grumbles, feigning resistance, but leans his head against Jason’s bicep regardless.

“Baby bird, what I’m tryin’ to explain to you here isn’t that you should be upset over a haircut, it’s that not only did you not want or ask for one, it’s that a teacher at your school who’s meant to be lookin’ out for you took it into his own hands to change _your_ appearance based on his _own_ ideas, without your permission.

“Whether or not it’s as serious as something else, it’s still _your_ body, Timmy, and it’s still a violation of your autonomy. It all comes down to consent, and when something’s done to you without it you can feel hurt, and ashamed, and a whole bunch of other things that just serve to make you feel like shit,” says Jason, and his voice is so painfully gentle Tim can hardly bear it.

Tim lets out a sniffle and pushes his head harder against Jason’s arm, as if hiding will make Jason’s words sting less against the raw exposed meat of his heart.

“You’re saying all this stuff,” Tim mumbles, “and I’m listening and I get it, but I just can’t seem to…” Tim lets out a noise of frustration.

“Internalise it? That’s gonna take time, baby bird, and we’ll be with you through each step, promise. You don’t hafta analyse and understand exactly why it’s makin’ you feel a certain way, just letting yourself feel that is enough for now.” Jason says, giving Tim’s shoulder a squeeze before pressing a kiss into his mussed hair.

“What Jason has been getting at, Tim,” Bruce cuts in, voice not unkind, “is that we’re horrified exactly because this was done without your consent and by someone who holds a position of power over you. It’s a form of assault, and carries all the gravity of that term.”

Bruce shifts slightly until he’s looking Tim directly in the eyes. “I swear I will do everything in my power to ensure that man faces all the consequences of his actions, and that you never have to be in a room with him again.” says Bruce resolutely, with all the weight and strength from years of protecting the vulnerable of Gotham as Batman echoing behind his words.

“Okay,” says Tim. And— even though he still struggles to accept help, or even affection from his family, a promise from Batman _means_ something in Gotham, even if right now Bruce is speaking as Tim’s adoptive father rather than a vigilante.

“Alright, sweetheart, you just let me take care of it,” Bruce says, dropping a kiss onto Tim’s forehead before he does the same to Jason.

“Aw, c’mon,” whines Jason, and Bruce chuckles.

Dick skips over with Cass perched on his shoulders, who then proceeds to leap off directly into Bruce’s lap. He lets out a pained grunt when she lands forcefully on his thighs.

“Proud of you,” Cass smiles at Tim, patting a grimacing Bruce on the cheek.

Dick ruffles Jason’s hair exuberantly, before moving to do the same to Tim, albeit somewhat more restrained.

“Feeling a bit better now, Tim? And if you need a breather, well, we get it. Bruce says five words to me about emotions and I need to take a twenty minute break,” Dick says slyly.

Bruce huffs out a _hn_.

“It’s true, old man, you really extended yourself this time. Impressive. Could go for a world record in Number of Words Said by Emotionally Open Fathers,” Jason says with a snicker.

“Impressive,” echoes Cass, smirking.

“Ungrateful children, the lot of you,” grumbles Bruce, ruining his attempt at a stern expression with a fond grin.

Dick laughs, removing his hand from Tim’s hair to turn to Jason with wide open arms.

“Now give him here, Jay, Tim’s been deprived of my hugs all week,” says Dick.

“What? No fair, I literally only just got him,” Jason protests.

“Older brother privileges, little wing! Now hand him over, I’m severely lacking on the hug front,” wheedles Dick as he makes grabby hands in Tim’s direction.

“I’m literally right here,” says Tim.

“Can’t have anything in this goddamn household,” gripes Jason as he transfers Tim into Dick’s arms nonetheless.

Tim’s starting to feel like a package that’s been misdelivered a few too many times, but it’s hard to complain when Dick bundles him into a full-body hug, squeezing him tight. Tim tenses, but soon his muscles begin to relax as he melts into Dick’s embrace. He clutches Dick’s jacket, focusing on nothing but the pressure and familiar scent of Dick’s subtle cologne. Dick rests his cheek on the crown of Tim’s head, clearly not ready to let Tim go any time soon.

Tim eventually pulls back at the sound of footsteps, turning to see both Alfred and Damian enter the den, Titus following happily at Damian’s heels.

Damian breathes in as though to power a lecture on Dick’s continued proximity to Tim, mouth clicking shut when Tim narrows his eyes in his direction. A wise decision, Tim thinks. He’s heard more than enough well-intentioned speeches for today, thank you.

Instead, Damian sits carefully in the corner of the couch closest to Tim and pulls out his phone, clearly swiping the screen randomly. His glances back and forth from the screen to Tim are in no way subtle.

Tim lets out a forceful sigh. “ _Fine_ , Damian,” he says, crossing his arms, “just say it already.”

Damian immediately gives up the pretence, though he hesitates before speaking.

“Timothy. I… I understand, the frustration and fear when things are taken out of your control,” says Damian. “It is… not pleasant, and for what it’s worth I am sorry you have experienced this.”

Damian frowns, his small fist twisting into the material of his shirt. Tim’s heart pangs in spite of himself.

“Thanks.” Tim says. “You really don’t have to apologise, but… thanks.”

Damian nods solemnly. “You are welcome,” he says.

Jason reaches to the side, hauling Damian under his arm to ruffle his hair, enthusiastically rewarding him for the display of emotional maturity. Tim snorts as Damian snarls, thrashing furiously under Jason’s ministrations.

“Jason,” barks Damian. “Let me _go_.” He finally struggles free from Jason’s grip. “Timothy, if you require your hair to be remedied before tomorrow, I am very skilled with a blade, and as scissors are no different, I would gladly offer to clean up your hair.”

There is _no way in Hell_ Tim is going to let a ten-year old with a knife anywhere near his hair, no matter his supposed talent, but Damian doesn’t need to hear that.

“Um,” says Tim haltingly.

“Not today, my dear boy,” says Alfred, striding forward. “This duty falls to me. I am not altogether unskilled with a blade myself,” he finishes with a quirk of his eyebrow.

Tim looks to him gratefully. “Thanks, Alfie,” he says.

“Now, would you rather wait or shall we get it out of the way now?” asks Alfred.

Tim hazards a quick glance around the room, Bruce meeting his eyes with a reassuring smile.

“Now is fine, I guess,” he says.

Alfred smiles. “Come now, Master Tim, there’s room in the kitchen,” he says, shuffling Tim along.

\---

The kitchen is a welcome reprieve from the buzz of the den, though it likely won’t remain so for long. Although he loves them for it, Tim’s siblings have an unfortunate habit of forcing themselves where they’re not exactly needed.

Alfred settles Tim into one of the island chairs, wrapping his shoulders with a towel he’s managed to materialise somewhere along the way. Alfred fusses around the counter momentarily before he comes and stands over Tim’s shoulder.

“Before I begin, Master Tim, I presume you’re still comfortable with me rearranging your hair?” Alfred asks.

“S’okay Alfred, I prefer you to some random hairdresser,” replies Tim.

Alfred squeezes his shoulder briefly. “I appreciate your confidence. I’ll ensure you retain as much of the previous length as possible, but I may have to trim off more than you’d prefer.”

Tim shrugs. “As long as it’s neat.”

“Alright, lad,” says Alfred gently, before picking up the scissors and making a start on Tim’s hair.

Tim gets a few minutes of quiet with Alfred snipping away at his hair before he senses someone at the door.

“You can stop lurking, Dick,” Tim says with a sigh.

Dick sheepishly enters the kitchen, perking up with obvious interest at Tim’s ongoing haircut. He lets out a low whistle.

“Looking _good_ , Tim! I never doubted you, Alfred, but seeing is believing and all that,” says Dick.

“I do take pride in my abilities, Master Dick,” says Alfred, preening in his own dignified way.

Dick grins, turning to root through the fridge. Tim enjoys the pleasant silence, focusing on Alfred’s comforting presence and the almost-hypnotic snick of the shears.

“So Tim,” says Dick, hopping on the island as he twists open a bottle of water. “How do you feel about returning to the short hair lifestyle?”

“Washing my hair’ll be quicker, I guess,” says Tim. “I didn’t really care either way.”

Dick hums encouragingly.

Tim continues after a pause. “I mean, I _like_ it long, obviously. It’s not that I didn’t like it being short, either. It was just… easier, that way. Like, I never had random teachers or people at galas strongly hint that I should cut it,” he says with a grimace.

“Classic traditionalist Gotham,” Dick says with a nod.

“And it meant my parents didn’t get weird about it,” Tim adds.

“Weird?” asks Dick pointedly.

“It’s not—” Tim cuts himself off with a harsh exhale. “It’s not like they did anything about it themselves, they’d just say a bunch of stuff and force me to get it cut.”

“Stuff like what?” Dick asks.

“My dad always had something to say about what it meant if my hair started getting too long, I guess. Mom wasn’t so obvious but I always knew she hated it,” says Tim.

“Hmm. If I’ve learnt anything from years of galas, this probably included a lot of comments on your image reflecting back on them topped off with a whole bunch of slurs and horrible insults, yeah?” asks Dick.

Tim snorts. “How’d you know?”

Dick smiles sadly. “Judging from every other thing you’ve told me about your parents, it wasn’t tough to sleuth out.”

They sit in silence for a short moment.

“Tim,” starts Dick haltingly. “Can you look at me for this, baby bird? No matter what your parents expected of you, we just want you to be happy and comfortable. I’m sorry your parents forced you into their narrow idea of what they thought was acceptable.”

Tim drops his gaze.

“I know you loved your parents, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t responsible for teaching you harmful things. We’re probably all beginning to sound like broken records at this point, but there’s _nothing_ wrong with being a boy and caring about your hair, okay? You can grow your hair long or wear makeup or paint your nails or whatever, and it doesn’t have to mean anything except that you like those things,” says Dick, voice gentle.

Alfred, having paused at Tim’s earlier confirmation, briefly rests a hand on Tim’s head. “You’ll always be safe to express yourself here, Master Tim, you have my word,” he says.

Tim bites his lip. “Okay,” he whispers. “Thanks.”

Tim throws Dick a tiny smile, who beams at him in return.

“Anyway, Timmy, I’m sure Jason’s showed you all the pictures of me from back in the day. I had a bunch of gossip columns written about me and my hair, even when my mullet was _totally_ fashionable. Not to mention having my clothing choices constantly torn apart for not being manly enough, and hey, look at me!” Dick flexes. “Am I not the most masculine man you’ve ever seen?”

Tim snickers.

“Dickie, you _wish_ you were masculine,” laughs Jason from the doorway.

“Hey!” Dick calls, spinning to glare at Jason in mock outrage.

The rest of the family flows into the kitchen from behind Jason, now that the more serious conversation has passed.

“Of course you were all standing at the door,” Tim grumbles.

“It’s a surprise they lasted as long as they did,” Alfred says wryly. “Fortunately for you, Master Tim, it’s just as I’ve finished.”

Alfred holds up a hand mirror, showing Tim the final product. His eyes screw up reflexively, biting back tears. Alfred’s done a fantastic job; Tim’s bangs are now even, brushing just below his cheekbones, the hair at the back subtly layered to his nape. It’s almost identical to hairstyles he’d sported happily in the past, the only difference now is that it’s in stark contrast to the hair that fell to his shoulders.

“Thank you,” he whispers, giving Alfred a tremulous attempt at a smile.

“You’re most welcome,” says Alfred, giving Tim a smile in return as he neatly slides the towel from Tim’s shoulders.

Tim hops from the stool as Bruce comes around the island.

“Tim. I was thinking we could all unwind with a movie tonight, how does that sound?” Bruce asks, brushing a hand through Tim’s cropped hair.

Tim leans forwards into Bruce’s embrace.

“Yeah,” says Tim. “Sounds good.”

His day may have started off terribly, but when Tim settles down with the rest of his family to the familiar opening notes of _The Princess Bride_ , he’s content. Even though Damian and Cass are fighting over who gets to share the armchair with Dick while Bruce rumbles at them to settle down, even though Jason wrestles Tim out of his perfectly comfortable hoodie into Jason’s own oversized Gotham University sweatshirt, Tim is _content_. When Alfred joins them later with a collection of mugs to a chorus of thank-yous and settles in himself, Tim can relax in the company of his family, knowing they all have his back, and that he’s loved, and safe. 

**Author's Note:**

> Editing to say you can also find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/applejee_/).


End file.
